


what i bring back with careless hands to show you

by jamesstruttingpotter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, kind of Persuasion-y too?, still haven't watched past like S3 don't @ me!!, thank u jane austen and also google
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesstruttingpotter/pseuds/jamesstruttingpotter
Summary: “Bellamy Blake will be part of your life again,” Raven says, emphatic, brooking no excuse. “For better or for worse. Don’t you think you should be thinking with a bit more detail how to navigate the next few months?”
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 41
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this over the three-day weekend with the intent to keep it to maybe 5K words max, and then this monstrosity occurred. I ended up splitting it into two chapters, but the next chapter should be up shortly. 
> 
> HUGE props to magneticwave's "you're in my blood like holy wine," which is one of the best fics I've ever read, and I'm not even part of that fandom. Please go read it and cry with me about it.
> 
> As always, I haven't watched past like, 4x01, but hopefully this is AU enough where that doesn't matter. This also has not been super well-researched or picked over for Americanisms, so I'm sorry in advance for any discrepancies! I hope you enjoy anyway. Reviews are Regency ballroom eyesex, Elizabeth / Darcy style

Clarke’s sitting in her main parlor addressing a carefully-composed response to Lady Monroe’s latest invitation when her butler slips inside and clears his throat. 

“Miss Raven Reyes to see you,” he says, and she frowns. It’s far too early in the morning to have visitors; it doesn’t bode well that Raven’s chosen to ignore this.

“Thank you, Jackson,” she says, setting aside her letter. She feels the side of her teapot with the back of her fingers. “Let’s ask Cook for a fresh pot, as well,” she adds, and he sketches a quick bow before retreating. 

Raven breezes in a second later, devastatingly outfitted in pale cream muslin, pelisse carelessly strewn over one arm. “You’re not going to like this,” she says without preamble. 

“Well, I appreciate you interrupting my morning for it, then,” she replies, with little bite, and Raven ignores this in favor of making herself comfortable on the chaise lounge. Clarke privately wishes her luck with this endeavor, as the silk upholstery has proven many times over to be one of the slipperiest fabrics known to mankind.

“I thought it best you hear from me than from a less intimate acquaintance the next time you find yourself in Almack’s,” Raven says. A maid enters with a tray, upon which a generous helping of biscuits accompany a steaming teapot. Cook’s selected the third-best set of china, a no-nonsense bone white affair that Clarke considers her personal favorite, if only because it won’t shatter at the slightest provocation. The fresh tea nearly burns her tongue, but it’s still early enough in the morning that the warmth is comforting rather than stifling. Raven, one foot braced on a table leg against the chaise’s best efforts to slide her off, helps herself to a biscuit.

“Do I want to know what you’ve accosted me to say?” Clarke finally asks, once the door’s shut again.

“The 100th Company have returned to London,” says Raven, and her eyes are fathomless behind her teacup. 

“I see,” Clarke says. She feels a faint pounding sensation take residence in her left temple. It doesn’t take much to keep her immediate reaction encased in ice, a chilly tone and frozen expression of politeness. “A brief respite from the French, then?”

“Let’s not play this game,” her companion replies, sharp gaze picking apart her shields. “Clarke, I’ve come as a personal favor.”

This, she doesn’t doubt. It’s been three years since Raven moved to England from her father’s native Spain, hauled very much against her will by her English mother’s determination to find an appropriate husband for her half-noble daughter. That season she’d been an object of curiosity for the Ton, accented English and darker complexion her primary calling cards, and Clarke had watched exasperation quickly consume the girl’s expression as picnics and dances whirled by. A young, somewhat inexperienced baronet named Finn Collins had seen fit to begin marking his interest after a few months through some ill-advised public speeches at his club, at which point Clarke quietly intervened to save Miss Reyes’ reputation. Their relationship had been a period of trial and error at first, Clarke admittedly otherwise preoccupied with what would turn out to be the biggest mistake of her life, but they’d eventually learned to rub along as well as two women of the Ton could reasonably expect from each other. Perhaps better than she’d realized, she thinks as she watches Raven easily deconstruct the expression she is now undoubtedly failing to mask on her own face. 

“They’ll be here for the rest of the season,” she continues. “The usual set’s already falling all over themselves to be the first to throw a ball.”

“I see,” Clarke says again, and frankly, it’s hard to think of anything else to say. Raven’s irritation at her lack of response is slowly giving way to something suspiciously like concern, which won’t do at all. She forces herself to put her teacup down, which buys her a few seconds and an excuse to not meet her gaze. “Well, I’m sure we’ll be perfectly civil once we see each other again. It’s been three years, after all. I can’t imagine we have much in common other than the faintest of memories by now.”

Raven makes a disbelieving noise. “So that’s your strategy?” she asks. “To be perfectly civil?” She must finally lose patience with the chaise because she relocates to the armchair next to Clarke, forcing her gaze to meet hers. “Bellamy Blake _will_ be part of your life again,” she says, emphatic, brooking no excuse. “For better or for worse. Don’t you think you should be thinking with a bit more detail how to navigate the next few months?”

The throbbing at her temple has suddenly, abruptly, gotten worse. “I do appreciate you bringing along the latest intelligence,” she says instead of addressing the question. Her dry, unconcerned tone takes effort. “Now, will you be attending Lady Monroe’s picnic?”

A pause. “I suppose so.” The sneaking suspicion that Raven has decided to let the subject drop out of pity sets her teeth on edge. “Though I will be ignoring Lord Roan for the whole of it; he’s been getting entirely too familiar with me as of late.”

The rest of the visit, thankfully, passes in the same vein, but Raven cannot help leaving her with a final meaningful look as she clasps her pelisse closed. Clarke sits back at her writing desk and indulges herself in a few minutes of sitting with her head in her hands, thoughts flashing by furiously. 

*

Raven hadn’t been wrong to ask about strategy. Clarke’s sure the whole of the Ton is already thinking through the ramifications of having her and Captain Blake ( _not_ Bellamy, she tells herself sternly) in the same city, let alone the same drawing room; she wouldn’t be surprised if the more insidious gossips have already been voicing their _concerns_ in parlors around London. It’s going to take work and a steady hand to bend Ton politics to her will, an endeavor that consumes her every season and never lets her escape without feeling like she’s lost years off the end of her life. In retrospect, figuring out how to extricate herself from the expectation she marry Wells two summers ago seems like child’s play compared to this new entanglement.

One small mercy is that the ball in honor of “His Majesty’s Royal Army and its Patriotic Sons” is announced fairly quickly, a truly expensive bit of paper bearing the Kane family seal making its way into Clarke’s morning mail and putting a definitive timeline on how long she can pretend this won’t be a problem. Of course, having the affair at her step-grandmother’s manse presents further complications; she feels a familiar stab of guilty resentment toward her mother’s new life on the Continent as she stares at Vera Kane’s handwriting. Lady Abigail had remarried scarcely a month after her mourning period and promptly left England, ostensibly to live closer to her new husband’s military campaign but realistically to avoid the gossip, which had instead fallen around Clarke’s shoulders like a particularly perverse inheritance. She dreads events at the Kane estate, even two years after the remarriage, as most of society still sees fit to keep half an eye on her behavior, searching for any slip that might betray familial discontent. Life in London is a constant performance, of course, but Clarke has found that the mask becomes more difficult to wear when it’s been forced upon her by choices she herself hasn’t made. 

Still, she can’t very well refuse to turn up. That’s a surefire way of ensuring gossip will make its rounds. Instead, Clarke uses her finest stationary to assure Lady Vera of her attendance, makes sure her best blue silk is ready to be worn, and devours the time in between by steadfastly refusing to think of what’s awaiting her. It’s much easier to do this when she’s got oil paints in her hands, or when she’s embroidering a new set of handkerchiefs, or when she’s managing the country estate through a series of prescriptive letters that must be read and written carefully, all of which adds up over the course of each day to ensure she’s too exhausted to do much more than collapse into a restless sleep immediately upon nightfall. 

She visits too, of course, and receives visitors, with the express purpose of showing whoever might be interested that she _has_ heard the 100th will be passing the season in London, that she’s _very_ grateful for the sacrifices their brave Army has been making over the past few years, and that she’s _very_ much looking forward to receiving the Captain and his men at Lady Vera’s in a few days. She wears politely disinterested patriotism like a winter coat, warm against the arctic winds of suspicion and malice the peerage take delight in stirring up.

“And how are we feeling about the sudden appearance of our soldiers in town, girls?” Lady Nia had asked during one such visit, as half a dozen ladies simpered over tea (the second-best Griffin china, this time) and praised Clarke’s eye for flower arrangements. Clarke had spared a moment to wish that Miss Fox wouldn’t be so transparent as to shoot her a worried glance. 

“I think it’s very kind of Lady Vera to host a wonderful event for our brave men,” she’d replied calmly, making sure everyone had gotten to take from the fruit platter. “It must have been difficult to earn that honor; I’m sure many families were eager to have the opportunity.”

There’d been no doubt Lady Nia had been vying to hold such a popular ball at her own estate. Clarke hadn’t allowed herself a smile at the older woman’s slight scowl at the time, even though she’d felt like she deserved it.

She’s grinning at the memory now as her carriage rolls to a halt outside the Kane estate. Her footman helps her down, packed dirt warm through the soles of her slippers, and any mirth she might have felt upon recalling Lady Nia’s expression evaporates as she stares at the candlelit rooms in front of her. She manages the receiving line adequately, kissing Lady Vera’s cheeks and complimenting the decorations, but she can already feel the press of curious gazes against her skin like a thin, itchy layer of awareness. It’s a relatively lavish affair, which Clarke is more than accustomed to, but her nerves still stretch tight as her stomach knots. She bites the inside of her cheek, hard, and pastes a smile on her face before going to find a drink.

Monty Green is posted near the punch, and the smile on his face is both genuine and welcome. “Lady Clarke,” he says, with a quick bow, and hands her a full glass before she can move to pour her own. “How are you this evening?”

“Well,” she responds, and if he suspects she’s lying, he’s too polite to mention it. “And yourself?”

“Not in immediate danger of choking,” he says wryly, with a discreet pull at his cravat. A short laugh escapes her, rather taking her by surprise, and the tension in her chest eases somewhat.

She has to play this one carefully, she knows. Mr. Green can usually be counted upon to act as an ally, not least because he isn’t remotely attracted to her, but as a foreigner who made his money in overseas trade, he has his own issues in the Ton to navigate. While Clarke trusts him, she also doesn’t want to jeopardize the standing he’s made for himself by involving him too closely in her own messy affairs. She’s had too much experience with rebuilding reputations to wish the experience on a friend.

“I’m looking forward to meeting our guests of honor tonight,” she tries, and Mr. Green nods amiably.

“As am I. I understand they’re on brief reprieve from France?”

“That’s what I’ve heard. I’m rather hoping they stay for the rest of the season. They deserve some time away, in actual society.”

He gives her a veiled look of regard. “You know, I find I quite agree with you,” he replies, and she raises her glass to his.

He secures her hand for the dinner set and then takes his leave, as the room is too crowded for them to permissibly stand and chat only with each other until then. Clarke is immediately swept up in the crush of people, smiles and jewels glittering all around, the scent of ladies’ rosewater and Lady Vera’s lily arrangements heady and thick. She catches Raven’s gaze for a moment but finds she has to look away before her expression cracks into something unacceptably grim. She instead forces herself through inane conversation until the orchestra starts playing, after which point she can hardly find the time to think for dancing.

She eventually manages to beg off for one set a few hours later and immediately acquires a flute of champagne. She presses the cool glass to her overheated cheeks, muffling a groan of relief at the sensation, and attempts to look through the crowd to see if she can make her way to the sofas in the next room over.

It’s nearly impossible to see the right hallway, but she does glimpse an unfortunately familiar dark head start moving her way. The crowd is refusing to thin out, meaning she can’t see his face, but the slicked back hair can only be one Cage Wallace, with what she’s sure is a shark-like grin on his face already. There’s no mistaking the trajectory of his walk, so she takes a deep breath, enjoys a rather long sip from her glass, and smooths her skirts, a pleasant smile overtaking her face.

“Lord Cage,” she says once he draws close enough. She forces a bobbed curtsey. “I trust you’re doing well this evening.”

“Oh, quite,” he says airily. Too late, she notices a darker, shorter figure half-hidden behind his, just as Cage starts to gesture toward it. “I’m in charge of a rather important duty tonight, Lady Clarke, which is to introduce Captain Blake to as many new friends as possible. Have you two already met?”

Her mouth is suddenly, infuriatingly dry. Captain Blake’s eyes, dragged over from where he’d resolutely been staring at the couples dancing, are dark and shuttered when they meet hers.

She’s never seen him in his uniform before, she thinks faintly. It’s an alien sight, no matter how well it suits him. She cannot reconcile the stiffness of his collar to the careless, near-undone cravat knots she remembers, nor the ramrod straightness of his posture to the easy way he used to curve toward her when they spoke. He looks far removed from the charming, self-deprecating man she’d previously known so well, a forbidding coldness in his expression making it near impossible to look at his face. But neither can she stop herself from looking, from drinking in the sight of him after three years apart. His hair is shorter than before, his freckles darker from the sun he must have seen while he was away. His hands are large and callused where they tap a rhythmless beat against his thigh. She suddenly recalls the sensation of those hands sliding against her own and feels her face flushing at the memory.

“I’m familiar with the Captain, yes,” she finally manages. Heat prickles across her skin as something flares in his gaze; it’s gone before she can decipher it, and they sit in a truly terrible silence for a half-second before Clarke remembers where they are. “How do you do, sir?”

His bow is stiff. “My lady,” he says, and she’s horrified to realize that his voice can still send shivers down her spine.

“My word, I’d nearly forgotten the Captain passed the season in London before he was sent to the Continent,” drawls Cage. “You must have been acquainted several years ago.”

“Just barely,” says Captain Blake before Clarke can reply, and his gaze is already flicking over and behind her, bored. 

She can feel her face settle into a mask of itself, even as her hands tremble. She grips the folds of her skirt and smiles at Cage. “How gentlemanly of you to renew our acquaintance,” she tells him.

“Yes, well,” he replies, grinning unpleasantly, and Captain Blake nods once before sweeping past her to join his fellow soldiers near a truly massive flower display. He almost shoves another gentleman aside in his haste to pass by. Clarke watches him go for just long enough to see the flicker of several ladies’ fans by the lilies, after which she wrenches her gaze back to Cage. Raven’s suddenly appeared by his shoulder, and Clarke doesn’t have to try very hard to fake a paroxysm of delight at seeing her. 

“It _has_ been an age,” she lies, and curtseys at Cage again. “If you’ll excuse us, sir, I simply _must_ take a turn about the room with my dear friend.”

Raven’s grip on her elbow is rather firm. Clarke is glad of it; it keeps her anchored to the ballroom when her mind hardly knows where to turn, whirling with confusion and, _damn_ it all, pain.

“They’re watching,” Raven whispers in her ear, and Clarke smiles so wide it hurts.

Early the next morning, as she finally climbs into her bed and extinguishes the candle, she relives the look on his face when he’d seen her for the first time, the shock that had splashed itself across his fine features before he’d wrestled it aside. He’d had to pass within six centimeters of her to get to his fellows, and her shoulder tingles even now at how close he’d been to touching her, how hard he’d exerted himself to ensure the gap wasn’t bridged. 

_Just barely acquainted_ , he’d said, dismissive, and she finds she actually has to muffle a half-hysterical laugh in her pillow, lest it turns into tears.

*

Lady Monroe’s picnic is at least free of Army officers, though a few of the younger girls voice their strong disappointments. Clarke, who had armed herself with a flattering peach muslin and striped parasol, feels her heartbeat slow in relief as she hears them complain. The lemonade she’s clutching tastes suddenly sweeter.

Wells, predictably, approaches her a few hours later, a worried furrow in his brow. She’s working on a sketch at the time, nattering on about the difficulties of drawing a rose’s many interlocking petals with Miss Harper, who in her opinion has the eye for art, if not yet the practice. “Miss McIntyre,” he says, nodding. “Lady Clarke.”

“Lord Wells,” says Harper, a little wide-eyed; at the ensuing silence, she murmurs an excuse about tea and curtseys her exit. 

Clarke, a little miffed, checks to make sure the pair of them are in clear eyesight of the rest of the party, who are now lounging around one of the garden’s many fountains. She can see Mr. John Murphy swivel his gaze to take them in, the wretched sneak, but he must detect some weakness in Lady Emori’s usual defenses because he looks away without even a smirk. To be fair, gossip about the two of them would be hard to peddle even if it wasn’t practically ancient: Wells has been said to be vying for the attentions of a Duchess freshly arrived in London from the North, recently orphaned and inheritor of her father’s Dukedom. The cynical machinations of the Ton can’t imagine Lord Jaha throwing away that opportunity for the daughter of an Earl. 

“Let me escort you to the rest of the season’s events,” Wells says as soon as they’ve ensured their privacy.

“No,” Clarke replies immediately. “We’ve only just gotten over the rumors from two years ago. I refuse to go through that again.”

It’s perhaps blunter than she intended, especially once she belatedly remembers he hadn’t necessarily been opposed to their union, but he looks undeterred. “It’ll be safer than you showing up alone,” he says.

She tamps down on a laugh. “Safer? My word, sir, are we planning on storming Paris?”

Only his good breeding stops what Clarke is sure was the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t want you to have to weather this alone,” he says instead.

The sun is starting to beat down rather strongly against the planes of her face. She opens up her parasol to shade herself, and perhaps to force Wells to duck if he wants to meet her gaze. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m partial to arrangements that won’t cause more problems than they solve.”

“Arrangements like what?”

She struggles for a moment. “That’s my business.”

This time he really does roll his eyes. “Clarke, let’s be reasonable. He’ll be well-received for the rest of the season, his status in the militia all but ensures that. If he doesn’t deserve that high praise, if he’s done something at all to make you question his integrity, you’ll be better off with allies at your side.”

“I don’t need you to explain society politics to me, my lord,” she snaps, before his implication penetrates her irritation. “Wait, what do you mean about his integrity?”

Discomfort wars with indignation on his face, clear as day. Clarke spares a moment to despair of his ability to play the game of the Ton with any sort of proficiency before he replies, voice almost a murmur. “I mean, if he - made promises he didn’t keep, or… well, _compromised_ you in any way - “

Cold realization prickles at her scalp despite the heat. “Wells, _no_ ,” she exclaims, momentarily forgetting where they are. She catches Raven’s warning frown out of the corner of her eye and works to modulate her volume. It’s harder than anticipated. “Is that what people think?” she hisses, furious and ashamed. “Is that what people have been saying about him?”

His jaw has fallen half-open. “No one knows anything with any degree of surety,” he says, confusion stringing his sentences out slowly, “I, for one, was rather convinced - “

“No,” she says. It’s definitely shame now that colors her cheeks red; she turns away to face the hedge maze and takes a breath, stomach roiling. “Wells, you can’t say anything of the sort to anyone else,” she finally gets out. “I know you haven’t been going about questioning my - my _integrity_ , but I certainly hope you haven’t been dropping hints about defending my honor.”

“I was prepared to,” he says. “Clarke, what on earth…?”

“It was my fault,” she replies miserably. She forces herself to keep her spine straight, in case anyone by the fountains is looking over at them again. It has been a rather appallingly long time for a man and woman to be conversing alone. “I can’t - I don’t know what else to say, but you remember that summer, how my father - “ Her throat closes up and Wells softens out of the corner of her eye, enough to reassure her that he does, in fact, remember. “I was - not in a state to be comforted, and I’m afraid I rather alienated Captain Blake.”

It’s the kindest way she can think to paraphrase the events. It’s difficult even now to recall what exactly transpired, the events overcast with the thick fog of grief, but she does remember his efforts to help her weather the storm of her despair, how immediately and thoughtlessly she’d rebuffed him. As far as problems to handle, her father’s death and her ensuing estrangement from her mother had already felt like too much to bear; the delicacy required to successfully manage a blossoming relationship under the ever-watchful eyes of the Ton became one load too many. She had told him in no uncertain terms of her lack of intent to marry him, and he had purchased his commission shortly thereafter.

Wells’ soft noise of understanding rather intensifies how wretched she feels. She picks up her pencil again with the hand not holding her parasol, mostly for lack of anything else to do, and he silently watches her sketch out a few cliff edges. “I heard,” he says delicately, “that the both of you conducted yourselves quite coldly at Lady Vera’s.”

“We are but barely acquainted,” she says, not quite able to help herself.

“I see.” He’s silent again, for a longer beat of time. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” she says, some unidentified feeling stretching her voice tight, “but I can’t bear to have people think he’s - broken a promise, or anything of the sort. He’s a good man, and I’ve made a proper ordeal of what should have been a happy return to the country.” She fights the urge to add storm clouds to her canvas. “Can you - do you think you could subtly mention that you’ve never heard of such a thing? We’ve been close friends since birth, one would reasonably expect that you would have heard if an engagement had been made.”

“I can try, though I’d have to wait for the subject to arise naturally. Although,” he adds, with an apologetic look at her, “I’m sure people will make the same connection between us that you just did, and the braver ones may end up plying me with questions.”

“I suppose it’s unavoidable, but it would help immensely if we could turn those instances into advantages.” With a sigh, she tucks the pencil back into its case. Wells takes the parasol from her other hand to hold for her as she picks up her canvas, and the two of them stroll leisurely back to the rest of the party.

“Sharing secrets, are we?” says Murphy when they arrive, and Clarke resolutely does not shoot him a dirty look. 

A week passes without any significant social engagements, nor any significant military presence in her life. The brief, uneventful meeting at Lady Vera’s seems to have satiated the Ton’s appetite for gossip by disappointing it, and Clarke instead gets to hear all about whether Lord Jasper Jordan truly intends on proposing marriage to the daughter of a London merchant. Privately, she wishes them every happiness, though she doesn’t make any moves to change the topic when it inevitably arises, instead taking some guilty pleasure in being relieved of the spotlight. She uses her spare daylight hours to finish the pencil sketch of her landscape before graduating to oil paints, and to force herself to make progress on her embroidery. One of Abigail’s monthly letters reaches her during this time too, full of mostly meaningless anecdotes and careful questions about the state of affairs “back home,” and she finds herself unusually glad for the challenge of replying in the same neutral tone. 

However, it’s more difficult to occupy her mind once the sun sets and she’s ensconced in her bedroom, darkness kept at bay only by a flickering candle. She runs her fingers through her hair to braid it back and stares at her reflection in the glass, thoughts tripping over themselves to be heard above the others.

The unfortunate conclusion most nights is that she wants to see him, is desperate for another chance to look at his face, and it rings so true that her jaw hurts from gritting her teeth against it. This realization only serves to convince her that it’s critical to keep her distance, if only to allow him the opportunity to exist in a London free of her presence. More selfishly, she balks at the idea of throwing herself in the path of a man who can still make her skin prick with awareness after three years, who can still send waves of heat down her spine with one glance. He can barely stand to look at her and she still wants him to, can feel longing stretch out taut and exquisite before her when she contemplates the next few months in the city.

The knowledge that she’s the one who put them in this position is what finally carries her to bed every night, is what picks her up the next morning and keeps her company as she writes her letters and paints her landscapes and visits her neighbors, what sits in the pit of her stomach every time she thinks she sees a red coat out of the corner of her eyes.

The week passes like so, after which Clarke receives an invitation to the theater. It’s an opera, apparently, which to her means some Italian shrieking and gossip spreading like wildfire in the boxes, but the invitation is from Monty Green, who has enclosed a short note promising a nice array of friendly faces. She accepts with something approaching genuine pleasure and takes her time deciding on an appropriate evening silk. The opera is a new one, and the soprano a promising young thing from Rome, both of which should ensure that the boxes are full to the gills. Dressing for a battle, she reflects, is halfway towards winning one, and she digs out her mother’s diamond earrings for good measure.

Her instincts are proven correct as she arrives at the theater: it seems every member of the Ton is arrayed in their respective boxes, opera glasses winking merrily at her as she finds Mr. Green. “Hello,” she murmurs, slipping into the seat between Raven and Wells.

“Champagne?” Mr. Green offers.

“Aren’t we feeling patriotic tonight,” she replies dryly, nevertheless taking a glass, and his grin is almost shy.

“All thanks to the English Navy, for their smuggling efforts.”

“Let’s not give them too much credit; anyone could get around Old Boney’s embargo,” says a new voice from behind them; Clarke turns to see an unfamiliar figure in a Sergeant’s dress uniform, grin aimed squarely at Mr. Green, who replies, “Yes, nothing will be as impressive as the King’s Army,” in a tone that misses sarcasm by a hair. 

There is barely enough time to process that development before the curtain twitches again to let in another uniform, and suddenly Clarke’s heart is threatening to choke her. “Miller, wrong box,” says Captain Blake, his teasing tone wrenching her back maybe three years or maybe a lifetime ago, and she digs her nails into her palms and doesn’t wonder if she can get away with slouching down in her seat. “Honestly, we leave the Continent and suddenly you can’t follow a single order.”

“Apologies, sir,” says Miller, and Captain Blake’s gaze wanders round the box before suddenly latching onto hers. 

He’s too much of a gentleman to go rigid, but she can definitely see the line of his shoulders tense up. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen,” he says, all warmth in his voice gone, and he drops a brief nod in Raven’s direction. “Ladies,” he adds, and then he’s disappeared. Miller follows his Captain with a guarded look at her as well, one that has her absolutely convinced that he’s put some pieces together, and she feels annoyance and shame well up in equal measure. Raven squeezes her wrist, fleeting.

“I’m sorry,” murmurs Mr. Green later, low enough to not be overheard by anyone else as the orchestra tunes up, and the stricken look on his face is enough to convince her this hadn’t been an ambush. She gives him a tight but genuine smile and tries to guess how many gazes are trained on her at the moment. 

Wells hands her his pair of opera glasses once the drama starts and she struggles for twenty minutes before finally giving in, hating herself for it.

She finds him easily enough; all the uniforms are clustered into Lord Roan’s box opposite them, likely more due to the man’s distaste for theater than his sense of patriotism. It’s too dark to see details, but Clarke can pick out the silhouette of Captain Blake’s face as he braces his elbows on his knees, as he leans forward to catch a glimpse of the soloist currently trilling her way through an aria. It looks like he’s smiling, just a little bit, and remembering the shape his mouth used to make when he smiled down at her makes something seize in her chest. 

_This is all very new for me_ , he’d confessed once, sunlight dappling his cheekbones as they sat under a great oak. He had been fresh into his surprise inheritance, the natural born son of an Earl who died with no heirs, and only months removed from his prior life as a tailor. He’d shown her how to hold her needle like she was sewing, not going to war with it, the calluses on his fingertips brushing against her knuckles. 

_It’s a good thing you have me to teach you, then_ , she’d replied, tart and naive and about to lose everything, blindingly happy for the last time in years. 

She watches him until the first act ends, until Wells knocks an elbow against hers in silent reminder of where they are. The rest of the opera flies by, unintelligible, and afterward Clarke catches a knot of red near the corner of the building’s main landing as she comes down the main stairs. Sergeant Miller is there, facing her direction, and Captain Blake is next to him, body tilted away to more properly address a vaguely-familiar woman in a simple but pretty muslin. A staggeringly familiar grin is on his face as he looks at her, gaze soft.

“Miss Gina Martin,” says Raven’s voice in her ear, because she can’t leave well enough alone any more than Clarke can. “Father’s recently become a baronet, but family wealth’s mostly in trade.”

“I see,” manages Clarke, and tears her eyes away.

 _Singularly stupid_ , she tells herself on the way home, and if Jackson notices that her father’s old bottle of scotch is missing a few mouthfuls the next morning, he says nothing.

*

Lord Jasper Jordan’s birthday always takes her by surprise just as the weather begins to warm up, and this year is his twentieth, a milestone that apparently warrants some excess celebration. Clarke is working again on her oil painting when the invitation arrives, something about the jut of ocean against stark cliffside not sitting quite right with her. She’s quite seriously considering throwing the whole canvas into a fire before she takes a break to read the expensive stationary, which has been positively ruined by Lord Jasper’s stubbornly inelegant penmanship.

 _Would be an absolute pleasure to see you again_ , he’s written, and she’s reluctantly reminded of (and charmed by) how they’d chase each other around their parents’ gardens when they were children. 

_Could not be persuaded to miss it,_ she replies, which is how she’s unwittingly dragged into an opulent affair at the truly enormous Jordan townhouse. 

“Lady Clarke,” the guest of honor himself exclaims at the receiving line. His cravat is slightly crooked. “How wonderful to see you! May I introduce my fiancée, Maya Vie?”

Miss Vie looks both terrified at the mass of people and determined not to show it; Clarke takes pity on her with a smile and genuine congratulations on their upcoming nuptials. It seems the event is serving double duty by providing Miss Vie with a friendly introduction to the society she is about to join: while it is not an intimate affair by any means, Clarke is sure she can recognize every face in the crowd behind the couple as a good friend of the Jordans, with few guests above the age of five and twenty.

Lord Jasper reserves a slot on her dance card for sometime between the dinner and supper set and then she’s pushed into the fray, the same familiar faces peering interestedly back at her. She’s wearing a rather flattering striped silk, lace tucked into all the appropriate places and her mother’s heirloom stones dangling off her ears. It feels, as always, like armor, and she rolls her shoulders back before launching into conversation with her nearest acquaintance. 

Raven finds her soon enough, looking like Aphrodite herself in pure white. Maybe Athena, Clarke revises at the expression on her friend’s face: she looks ready to wage a war of no prisoners. “Come take a turn about the room with me, my darling,” she says, effectively rescuing Clarke from a band of girls still young enough to take nothing but pleasure in society events. She feels helplessly matronly among them, for all that she’s still wearing her light colors and missing a wedding band. It’s hard to remember the times when she’d eye fresh-faced baronets and earls with no objective beyond falling in love. She tucks a hand into Raven’s elbow and is steered to the fringes of the room, closer to where the violins are causing a ruckus easy enough to whisper under.

“The 100th has been invited, but it’s common knowledge you’re good family friends with the Jordans,” says Raven.

Clarke shakes her head. “Captain Blake is not the type to shy away from those who have wronged him,” she says, with rather more authority than she may be at liberty to feel. 

“Then we must act like the French and be on the lookout for redcoats,” Raven says, grim, and lifts two glasses of champagne off a passing tray. “To help get into character,” she adds, and they toast.

There is a gaggle of men lounging against the wall to their left, well-bred enough that their glances at the pair of them are surreptitious. Despite how frequently liberating it is to have a guardian who is geographically so far removed from London, women and men alike are often suspicious of a young woman with no inclination to find a husband, and the lack of a constant chaperon exacerbates this. Clarke is wealthy, true, but not enough to buck societal convention and live wholly free of the Ton’s expectations; further, she knows that the weapons available to her in London are the favors she can trade with women and the easy desire she can inspire in men. If her greatest wish is to be left alone, she must make sure she provokes no reason to be investigated further. This was a lesson she learned quickly with Lexa, and having escaped barely by the skin of her teeth, she is not eager for remedial studies.

“Make me laugh,” Clarke therefore asks, self-aware enough to know acting is not her strong suit, and Raven complies, producing a short anecdote about Miss Fox’s horse that has them both giggling into their fans as they pass their admirers. It works about as quickly as one would expect, and soon both their dance cards are nearly full. Lord Roan, it seems, is determined to get at least two dances out of Raven, leading to a rather diverting display of well-matched wit that distracts Clarke almost enough to keep from looking around her. She’s not sure whether seeing him would be worse than not, and regret mingles with relief in her chest when she finds crimson coats conspicuously missing.

Roan succeeds in securing his two dances, after which Wells materializes to ask after the dinner set, a development that wholly surprises everyone except the lady herself. Clarke watches in awe as pink diffuses in Raven’s cheeks. Wells’ hand is steady as he signs his name on her card. “Well played,” says Roan, affecting a scowl before bowing in Clarke’s direction. “Shall I have the pleasure of escorting my lady to dinner, then?”

“If I were playing second to any other woman I’d find myself in grave danger of being offended, my lord,” she replies, to which he feeds her the usual flowery flattery that gentlemen of the peerage have perfected, and that she has very little patience for: _no star could shine as bright as my Lady Clarke, the honor is wholly and solely mine_ , et cetera, et cetera. She’s almost on the verge of enjoying herself at his expense when a throat is cleared from behind her. She has half a second to register pure shock on Wells’ face before she turns around to find herself face to face with Captain Blake.

“May I have the honor of the next dance, my lady?” he says, expressionless.

“I’m afraid I’ve just promised it to Lord Atom, sir,” she replies through numb lips.

“I’d be happy to exchange my set for the cotillion, ma’am,” Lord Atom supplies quickly, all grace, and Clarke doesn’t know what on earth her reply should be.

Captain Blake makes the choice for her by extending a hand. He’s wearing a navy coat, civilian and very fine, which explains how he was able to make his ambush. The starched white of his shirt fairly gleams in comparison. The line of his jaw as it disappears behind his collar is taut. 

“Very well,” she says, forcing her tone to be buoyant, and allows his fingers to close over her knuckles. Even through their gloves, it feels like her skin is burning. She can hear Raven attempting to mitigate the situation with an airy laugh - “Old friends, since before Captain Blake bought his commission; I’m sure they’re very happy to have some time to reacquaint themselves” - but then they’ve approached the other partners and the instruments are eking out something bright and loud.

The first ten minutes are excruciating. Her usual topics of conversation are unthinkable here; she can’t imagine opining on the ladies’ dresses or the Jordans’ impeccable decorations with the stone-faced man guiding her through their steps. The stares of the other guests are hot on the back of her neck, their curiosity like an open flame. She wishes she’d chosen something less oppressive than silk to wear, thinks longingly of stepping outside into the cool night air, perhaps to turn and walk straight back to the Griffin townhouse.

She watches a lock of his hair curl against the smooth skin of his temple, pried free from its compatriots by their turns about the floor, and suddenly can’t imagine leaving.

“I have learned,” he says suddenly, quiet and stilted, “that my reputation was rather at stake while I was on the Continent.”

Fresh blood rushes to her cheeks. “I had not heard, my lord,” she replies, and the dry look he gives her is so achingly familiar that she capitulates. “It was brought to my attention for the first time about a month ago.”

“I have also heard that efforts have been made to redeem my image.” His voice is almost too low to be heard over the chatter; had Clarke not been wretchedly attuned to it, the conversation would have been impossible.

“I’m afraid I’m not privy to the gossip that occurs in gentlemen’s clubs,” she says, still flustered.

“And how did my lady know these efforts had been occurring in clubs rather than ladies’ parlors?” he replies, swift, and it’s not a question. 

It’s a stupid mistake. Pathetically, the only thing to blame for her oversight is how close Captain Blake’s face is to her own, for the first time in three years. He’s near enough that she can catch the flecks of gold in his irises, melting in the candlelight. His palm presses flat against her own.

 _You must know I would have stopped it earlier if I’d known,_ she wants to say. _You must know that I regret causing you any harm, that I have never regretted anything more than lodging a knife in your heart._ Can he recognize these sentiments somewhere, as he looks into her eyes? Can he feel her heartbeat somehow, thudding painfully in her chest?

The music crescendos, shattering the tension between them, and he withdraws his hand before their next turn. “I… apologize, for the awkward situation my departure must have left you in,” he says, voice like gravel. “I also realize that the clearing of my name has been a fortunate, if unplanned byproduct of you clearing your own. I wish you every success in your continued pursuit of bringing honor to the house of Griffin.”

He believes Clarke to have acted to preserve her own reputation and nothing more. Ice skitters down her back despite the heat of the ballroom. 

The realization that he must truly think very little of her indeed drags down her tongue, keeps her from being able to formulate any sort of reply. What could she say? That she’d been interested in his welfare alone? That she was, improbably and imprudently, still in love with him, that she had never stopped?

She can’t look away from the flatness of his mouth, such a contrast from the way he’d smiled at Miss Martin at the entrance of the theater. Looking away from him would be admitting defeat, if only to herself; looking into his eyes again seems as impossible as reaching the Moon. “I’ve never heard you speak like an Earl,” she says finally, and the faint disapproval she feels at the prospect of him becoming as silver-tongued and useless as Roan must shine through, because the corners of his lips somehow tighten even more.

“Indeed,” he says, the gentlemanly response to idiocy. They’re silent for the rest of their set, and once the music winds down his bow is short and perfunctory before he disappears.

She is quickly claimed by Lord John Mbege for the next dance, and she is not foolish enough to indulge in the frantic despair she can feel fluttering in her chest. Instead, she smiles and laughs, compliments the Jordans’ furnishings, and executes her steps perfectly. There will be time later to dissect the way his hand had tensed at his side during their silence, the look in his eyes when she’d dared to meet them, the persistent thought that she can feel the heat of his grip on her knuckles hours later. There will also be time later to examine the curious pain in her heart at the sight of him leading Miss Martin through the dinner set, the tightness in her throat when she catches a glimpse of him leaning closer to hear the other woman over the raucous din of supper. For now, she dances until her feet ache in their slippers, laughs until her cheeks hurt, and fights the unladylike urge to consume an entire bottle of champagne alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind words on the prior chapter! This is the second and final; I hope you enjoy!

Lord Jasper’s birthday ball continues to haunt her for the rest of the season in that the Jordans seem to decide she’s an appropriate resource for Miss Maya Vie’s efforts to integrate into the peerage, along with several of their mutual acquaintances. This list unfortunately also includes Captain Blake. She begins to receive at least one invitation a week for some small event or other, usually in mixed company, during which the Captain seems to decide that the best course of action is to minimize all contact. Clarke follows his lead, more conscious than ever of how unwanted the reminder of her must be as he begins to earnestly court Miss Martin. Horrifyingly, she is still unable to keep from embarrassing herself in front of Miss Vie, whose skills in perception prove sharp during one garden party as the both of them serve refreshments to the group.

“Shall I bring over some tea for Captain Blake?” Miss Vie asks, shading her eyes as she stares across the Jordan rose bushes. “I’m not sure where he is, but I think he’s the only one who hasn’t had anything to drink yet.”

“I believe he’d prefer lemonade,” Clarke says unthinkingly, and freezes when a familiar figure appears in her periphery to requisition some cold cuts.

“Tea would be lovely,” says the Captain. Clarke is sure she isn’t imagining the slight rebuke in his tone; her suspicions are confirmed when he lopes away and Miss Vie turns to regard her with a soft look of compassion.

_ The one person in London who probably didn’t know about our sordid history, now all too aware, _ Clarke thinks darkly, and affixes a smile on her face before rearranging the fruits.

The situation begins, somehow, to worsen further after this incident. He’s discreet for a gentleman, but she has had years of navigating the Ton’s tricky maze, of noticing when she’s captured a man’s attention for good or for ill, and his gaze when it lands on her is scorching. It never lasts long, and she’s never sure what he’s looking for, but the weight of it makes her bite the inside of her lip with the effort of ignoring him. She can’t shake the feeling that he’s critiquing her, looking for deficiencies to further prove her unsuitability; either way, she can’t bring herself to do anything other than endure it.

Raven is convinced the solution lies with confronting Captain Blake directly, her opinion becoming more entrenched the more they’re forced to attend the same gatherings. “It’s frankly painful, watching the both of you,” she says one afternoon, novel carelessly thrown aside in favor of fixing Clarke with a penetrating stare. “I’ve never seen him act in a manner so deliberately designed to suggest his dislike of someone, nor have I ever seen you this timid. I’m not sure it suits either party.”

Clarke spares a moment to regret telling Jackson to admit Miss Reyes into her studio. She’s working on adding dimension to her ocean waves with a palette knife, and the blues she so painstakingly mixed are refusing to sit properly with her greys. “I cannot in good conscience submit Captain Blake to the ordeal of spending more time with me,” she says, voice admirably level. She picks up a dry brush to try to even out some of her more dramatic strokes. 

“You’re already spending quite a bit of time in each other’s orbits.”

“What would you suggest I say? We have remarkably little to discuss. I’m not sure a private audience would consist of much more than silence.”

“You love him, do you not?” Clarke’s wrist jerks, bristles skidding across canvas. “It’s not obvious to people less intimate with you than I,” continues Raven, “which is to say, I’d be surprised if anyone other than Lord Wells has noticed. But the tension between the pair of you, the unspoken words… people are only holding their tongues because nothing has yet occurred.”

“And I’m doing my best to ensure nothing does,” snaps Clarke. The painting’s not ruined, but she’ll have to work around the ghastly smear she’s made.

“You seem convinced that the best outcome is nothing,” Raven notes, placid in the face of her irritation.

“He’s been courting Miss Martin,” she replies, keeping her tone sharp to paper over less convenient emotions. 

“He’s been putting in rather more effort into ignoring you than paying attention to her.”

“If a sense of loathing denoted true love, I’d rather expect the Duke of Wellington to be announcing his engagement to Bonaparte.”

Raven shoots her an unamused look. “Cleverness will only get you out of this conversation for so long,” she warns.

Clarke mutters, “I only need the next three months.”

Three months until the close of another season, after which she’ll be free to return to the Griffin country estate. Presumably Captain Blake will return to the Continent, perhaps with a wife in tow, or perhaps he will retire to his own manor and start the business of becoming an Earl proper. Should he marry Miss Gina Martin, their household would be well-kept and likely lively, if their behavior together during these last few weeks has been at all indicative. Neither one of them would have practice at being a peer, but they both would have plenty of affection to keep them afloat. It’d be a happy life, she thinks, and tries to find it within herself to wish him joy. It is, of course, abominably selfish of her to feel otherwise, but Clarke knows selfishness to be her failing better than most. 

She’s lived a life without Bellamy Blake for the past three years, had been resigned to it for just as long. Why does seeing the man again make the prospect seem so much more difficult? Why does his loathing for her not inspire the same in her for him?

_ Three months _ , she thinks.  _ Twelve weeks until we never meet again. _

*

She’s suffering through her correspondence on a horrifically rainy afternoon, the overcast skies rendering half a dozen candlesticks necessary despite the hour. The ensuing humidity has her hair sticking damply to her neck, her chemise to her thighs where she sits. She contemplates setting aside her letters for a quick lie-down on the chaise lounge, slippery silk be damned; it’s straining her eyes to read in the gloom. The prospect of delaying her instructions to the country estate by yet another day forces her to keep her seat, however; she thinks she’s finally unknotted a discrepancy in their bookkeeping that should relieve her tenants of a proposed new tax.

She’s melting the wax for her father’s seal when Jackson enters, unable to keep an expression of surprise off his face. “Lord Wells Jaha to see you, ma’am,” he says, and the reason for his shock becomes clear when Wells enters a moment later, soaking wet and out of breath.

Alarm has her jumping up to her feet. “Good Heavens, were you swimming in the Thames? Jackson, some towels and hot tea, as soon as you can manage it.”

“I thank you, madam, but I shall be gone presently,” says Wells. Something about his voice, usually smooth and even, sounds unsteady. “I merely require a moment of your time.”

“Of course,” she replies, and Jackson disappears.

“What on earth caused you to run here without your carriage?” she says as soon as they’re alone. “Wells, for goodness’ sake, let me fetch some towels, if at the very least to save my rugs from your puddles.”

Wells says, “Captain Blake got into a brawl this afternoon with Cage Wallace.” 

The floor tilts sickeningly underneath her feet. “ _ What? _ ”

“It gets worse.” He’s grim. “The cause appears to have been you.”

Clarke has enough presence of mind to keep from clutching at her writing desk to keep her balance. Still, her knees feel alarmingly watery. “Explain.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much - as soon as I heard you were involved, I came straight to inform you. Don’t be too alarmed, Blake was clearly the victor.”

There’s no time to take comfort in this. “Damages?”

“I’ve assured the venue’s proprietor that bills can be forwarded to my account. There wasn’t a large audience, and the majority of them are already our acquaintances or easily persuaded.”

“Persuaded? What have you told them?”

“Mr. Green seems to be one of the few who know the true reason for the disagreement; when I left, he was blaming drink. Those who know Wallace won’t look too closely for a different reason.”

“And you don’t know exactly what was said?”

“I’m afraid not. It may be that only the two gentlemen involved do.”

“I see.” Panic is giving way to something that feels suspiciously like fury. “If you’ll excuse me. See to it that you dry off before you catch your death of cold.”

“Clarke, what are you planning to do?”

“If only two people know the information I need, it’d be prudent of me to visit at least one of them,” she replies, and is soon in the foyer, calling for a maid to bring her pelisse.

Wells follows her out, looking alarmed. “Let’s be reasonable,” he says, and she nearly laughs at the suggestion. “What excuse could you have to be storming into his home?”

“We are acquaintances,” she points out. Her maid also presses a large umbrella into her hand. “Thank you, Charlotte. I expect I have some events to discuss with him, such as the upcoming picnic with the Jordans, or the card party Miss Harper is planning.” She gestures at Jackson to open the front door. “Please see to it that Lord Wells dries off before braving the elements again,” she adds, before setting off.

Captain Blake’s townhouse isn’t far, though the torrential downpour has every step feeling like a mile. There isn’t nearly enough room in her mind to examine why she knows the route by heart, even after three years; anger has unfolded in her chest at a frightening speed, driven by both frustration and fear. The prospect of anyone getting into a public fight for any reason is appalling enough to be the talk for the rest of the season; this is sure to be exacerbated by the fact that Captain Blake’s status as a peer is still somewhat tenuous for the more traditionally-minded members of the Ton. Clarke can’t bear to even entertain scenarios of what people would say about him if word of her unwitting involvement got out.

She’s rapping his door knocker in no time, the startled face of his butler peering out at her seconds later. “I’m afraid Lord Blake is not available for company at the moment,” the man says, but wilts at her expression.

“I’d be more than happy to wait until my lord has the time,” she replies, and is immediately shown to the library.

A young girl slips in and out to start a smoldering fire and to deliver a pot of coffee, which Clarke doesn’t touch. She instead stands by the window at the far edge of the room, staring out at the mist that is beginning to overtake the back gardens, trying to control her temper. There’s a large grandfather clock ticking out the seconds, steady and rhythmic. She watches water droplets slip down the glass pane and resolutely does not start to wonder what exactly she’s doing.

The door creaks open again behind her much sooner than she’d expected. She turns around to see Captain Blake standing there in shirtsleeves and breeches, hair wild in a way that suggests quick work with a towel minutes prior. She says nothing, as does he; the look on his face is carefully neutral in a way that seems designed to break her heart.

“Was it Jaha or Green?” he asks finally, and some part of her is gratified at his refusal to pretend she doesn’t know. The greater part of her is consumed by the anger that flares back into hot existence at his nonchalance, blood rushing unbidden to her cheeks.

“It hardly matters,” she snaps back. “May I ask what on earth you were thinking? Lord Cage is both rich and powerful, even by the standards of the peerage; he’s inherited half the Mountain district alone!” She should know; her tenants’ disagreements with his ham-fisted attempts to encroach upon her property have caused her too many headaches to be counted.

“So you defend him, then?” Captain Blake sneers, closing the door behind him.

“I rather think you’ve been ridiculous enough for one day,” Clarke replies, frosty. Her nails dig painfully into her palms. “What possessed you to take such actions?”

His glare swings down to the coffee tray; she’s surprised the china doesn’t shatter from the force of it. “I may not have been raised as a gentleman, but I still know how one should speak of a lady,” he says finally, like the words cost immense effort. “Wallace’s titles don’t make up for his lack of breeding.”

A disbelieving laugh claws its way out of her throat. His gaze snaps back to hers, furious. “This was about my  _ honor _ ?”

He advances a few quick steps in her direction before seeming to think better of it. “It seems Lord Wallace is very… covetous of your assets, my lady,” he grits out. The fireplace sends red shadows dancing across his face. “There’s been talk of special licenses.”

“If you think anything on earth could convince me to accept that man’s hand, we’ve never been truly acquainted at all,” she replies, and very nearly sees him flinch. It’s the first time she’s mentioned their past, and only her anger insulates her from the pain the reference causes.

There is something smoldering in the depths of his eyes that she cannot, for the life of her, parse. Wrath, perhaps, but there is an unguarded edge to it that has her fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirts. “I will concede I may have created a new threat to your reputation,” he says eventually, biting. “For that, I apologize.”

“I don’t care a single whit for my reputation,” she says, and watches in puzzlement as surprise flickers across his expression. “My concern is the position in which you’ve placed yourself.”

“And what position is that, my lady?”

“I don’t know yet, and that’s the most significant problem,” she replies. It’s hard to estimate just what impact this will have on his standing, whether Mr. Green and Wells have worked quickly enough to quiet the rumors, whether enough of the Ton will have the wherewithal to stand with him against Cage Wallace if they haven’t. 

His reasons are admittedly noble, and potentially dashing enough to win over some romantically-minded ladies. But she cannot imagine a world where Captain Blake consents to entangling his life with hers again, even to save his own skin. She cannot fathom asking him to portray this as a love story, even as the thought makes her own pulse accelerate. 

“We must work to preserve Mr. Green’s initial explanation,” she concludes, and is already crafting her response to whomever might bring it up to her. “Wells is right; anyone who knows Lord Cage will not need more of a reason than whiskey.”

His emotions have evidently cooled as well, features schooled back to the careful mask of neutrality she’s come so quickly to loathe. He releases her eyes from his stare and gestures at the fireplace. “Come stand closer to the heat; you’re shivering,” he says, brusque, and she finds to her surprise that he’s right.

Warmth blossoms on her damp skin once she moves closer. Her shoulder blades unknot slightly. From here, she’s not three feet away from where he stands. This close, she can see blood starting to clot along his split lip, a small gash across the corner of his cheekbone that must have been put there by one of Wallace’s gaudy rings. He turns to face her examination full-on, expression defiant; she feels molten heat pool in her stomach as she watches his shoulders flex beneath the thin muslin of his shirt. 

“I can only thank God that firearms were not involved,” she murmurs.

“Even I would not be so foolish as to shoot a member of the House of Lords in broad daylight,” he replies, tone equally low. The edge has returned to his gaze, sharp and fierce as the blade of a knife.

“I find I don’t much care for  _ his  _ bodily safety,” she says before she can think better of it, and the curve of his jaw clenches taut.

She can hear the grandfather clock again in the ensuing quiet, as well as the patter of rain against the roof. She’s suddenly uncomfortably aware of how terrible she must look: the hem of her skirts drenched from walking over, tendrils of wet hair plastered to her neck, the remnants of her anger still showing bright red in her cheeks. Her teeth press into her lower lip, briefly, nerves flaring as she watches his hands move restlessly against his side, knuckles split and unbandaged.

“I should… excuse myself,” she says finally, once the silence becomes too much to bear. His gaze snaps to hers, and she can’t hold it for more than a few seconds. She fixes her eyes on his china instead, stomach swooping as she realizes she can still recognize the pattern. “I do hope you ask a doctor to take a look at where you may be injured.”

“I assure you the situation is not as dire as that,” he says, and the rasp in his tone sends new shivers skittering across her skin. 

She turns to leave before she can do something truly idiotic, like offer to treat his wounds herself, or reach out to trace the straight line of his nose, down to the swell of his mouth below.

Her fingers have just touched the door handle when he says, “My lady,” and her feet stop against her better judgment. “I’m sorry. I regret causing you pain.”

She looks back at him over her shoulder. “As do I, my lord,” she replies, and takes her leave.

*

The Ton has caught wind of the brawl within hours, and Clarke is subjected to breathless gossip about it for the next fortnight. To her relief, it seems that Mr. Green’s quick thinking has had its effect, and more than one lady of her acquaintance uses this as an opportunity to denounce the horrors of drink and Wallace alike.

“It really was just a matter of time before Lord Cage lost his wits to whiskey and assaulted someone in the vicinity,” says Lady Monroe to the women playing cards in Miss Harper’s drawing room. Clarke, from where she holds a winning hand of vingt-un, keeps her mouth shut until Captain Blake returns with the rest of the gentlemen from brandy, after which the ladies don’t dare to bring up the subject.

She quickly finds that even if they had, she would’ve hardly had the presence of mind to come up with appropriate responses, as the Captain is seated at her table and proceeds to keep a steady, quizzical gaze on her. This so thoroughly scrambles her thoughts that she abandons her hand and offers to pour coffee for the group instead. The repetitive motions of assembling the cups and saucers, pouring the drink, and stirring in sugar help to settle her thoughts for a few minutes. Of course, as if sensing this, Captain Blake finishes his round and comes to stand by her as well, in theory assisting with the process but in reality hindering her ability to be efficient and clear-headed.

Finally, propriety demands she attempt an overture. “How is your sister, Captain?” she asks, and sees his hands freeze for a moment in surprise.

“Well,” he replies a moment later. “She has been enjoying her time in Portugal. I gather from her letters that she has recently taken up painting.”

“A noble pursuit,” she says, dry, and his chuckle tells her he hasn’t forgotten about her own regard for art. It does something unacceptable to her stomach that she decides to ignore. “Has she plans to return to England soon?”

“Despite my better efforts, no. It may be easier to see her there while on campaign than to see her here while on leave.”

“Do you anticipate returning to the Continent anytime soon?” she asks, careful to keep sudden anxiety off her tone.

“It is… unclear.” He clears his throat. “I’m afraid I left my father’s estate rather uncared for in the wake of purchasing my commission. I’ve been urged to consider playing Earl rather than Captain.”

“I see,” she murmurs, and could kick herself. She knows all too well what precipitated his hasty leave. Lord Sterling comes by then to acquire refreshments for his table, and she finds herself rather glad for the distraction. 

However, this initial awkwardness does not deter the Captain from seeking her conversation, and she learns to expect his presence at her side for at least a few minutes whenever there is mixed company. After the first few encounters, she spends a sleepless night composing a list of neutral topics to safely discuss: books, music, art. But she quickly relearns how deftly Captain Blake can assert his opinions on any subject, and how much it pleases them when she disagrees. She’s also reminded how refreshing it is to speak with a man who doesn’t discount her views on the basis of her sex, and the depth and quality of their discussions threaten to undo her decision to be cautious with him. 

Still, she cannot convince herself that he desires a relationship with her the way she does. Nor can she petition him to forgive so old and deep a wound. Instead, she resolves to take what she can in these last few months, to preserve them in her memory as an excellent example of a rewarding acquaintanceship, and to ask for nothing more.

It’s working rather well, too, by the time Cage Wallace visits.

Clarke is attempting another try at the painting from hell when Jackson finds her, lurid orange streaked across her forehead. “Lord Cage Wallace is here, ma’am,” he says, a note of warning in his tone. 

She bites back on a very unladylike exclamation before ringing for the maid and ascending to her bedroom. She scrubs her face quickly and emerges to find that Charlotte has chosen a lovely pale green silk. It’s demure but obviously frightfully expensive, a good reminder of Clarke’s position as mistress of her own wealthy household. “Oh, well done,” she tells the younger girl, who flushes pink with pleasure before raking her hair back into an acceptable plait.

Jackson, rather well-versed in Ton politics himself, has only just sent in tea by the time Clarke arrives in the parlor twenty minutes later. Wallace is seated in her best armchair and bears no reminders of his encounter with Captain Blake save a fading yellow-ish bruise around his eye, which would explain his absence from the last few social events. His irate expression is replaced with smugness upon her entry, which can only bode ill. “Lord Cage,” she says, forcing gaiety into her tone as she sits. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I have a business proposition for you, my lady,” he replies, before dropping his gaze to the tea tray. Baring her teeth in some semblance of a smile, she pours him a cup.

“A business proposition?” she echoes, once he’s satisfied. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean. Our tenants, though cordial neighbors, have little reason to trade.”

“I’m afraid trade is not quite my intention,” he replies, and her feeling of unease grows. “I was thinking instead,” he says, “of how dissimilar our management styles are.”

This does nothing to clarify the matter for her. “Does my lord refer to the disputes our tenants have had over the past few years?” she asks, nonplussed. “While I agree there have been a few issues, I was under the impression that they had been resolved some months ago.”

“Yes, but I anticipate there will be others.” He leaps lightly to his feet then, teacup still in hand, to stride over to her bookshelf. He examines the titles displayed there without interest, and Clarke lets the silence stretch long. “I am of the opinion,” he says finally, “that the only true solution is a sole source of authority, rather than two contradictory ones.”

It takes her a moment, after which she’s torn between horror and grim amusement. “You speak of marriage,” she says, and his grin expands.

“Clever girl,” he says. She nearly bristles. “I think our lands are rather complementary, situated as they are so close to each other. We have similar sources of income, and I must admit, while you’ve muddled along well enough on your own, I can offer your tenants a… well, a more experienced touch.”

Her responding smile is humorless. “I was rather given to believe that proposals of marriage are less about business and more about mutual pleasure, my lord.”

It’s the wrong thing to say; her skin near crawls off her flesh at the lecherous look he gives her. “I do believe pleasure can be found, my lady.”

She puts down her teacup to brace her hands against her armrests. “I must endeavor to be as clear as possible,” she says. There’s a trembling, hot sensation making its way up her chest; Clarke distantly recognizes it to be fury, and knows she must choke it before it spills over into her words. “While I appreciate your concerns, I do not believe that our union would be a beneficial one, either for us or for my tenants. In fact, I very strongly believe that neither one of us could make the other even remotely happy. I must respectfully decline your offer.”

Wallace does not look even remotely put out. “I was rather dreading your initial refusal,” he says, with a faux moue of disapproval. “It makes the prospect of living in mutual harmony much harder, as you will now force my hand.”

“Sir, I remain unconvinced that you could say anything that would induce me to accept.”

He saunters over to put his own teacup on the table in front of her, and takes a seat on the ottoman in front of her armchair. This close, she can see how much fun he’s having, the cruelty writ large on his face.

“The fact of the matter is,” he starts, “I’ve recently become familiar with Captain Bellamy Blake’s personal history, after an unfortunate run-in left me with several questions regarding his acquaintances. More specifically, I had some time to ponder why the good Captain would be willing to display his -  _ rough  _ upbringing in front of peers, all for a woman with whom, by all accounts, he shares a mutual sense of loathing.”

Clarke feels, suddenly and distinctly, her control over the conversation slip from her fingertips. “I’m afraid you have rather the wrong impression,” she says.

His grin widens. “Yes, I do now think  _ loathing  _ is the wrong word. You and he were rather intimately acquainted three summers ago, were you not? After which he abruptly left for the Continent, and you secluded yourself at your family estate.”

“My father had just passed,” she points out. He looks unconvinced, despite the steel in her tone; the look on his face is a vise around her chest, squeezing tighter the more she struggles to remove it.

“Yes, well, I rather think that if the version of events I’ve pieced together gets out, you’ll be entertaining very few marriage offers in the future, if any.” He leans forward in his seat. “Gentlemen typically don’t enjoy secondhand purchases.”

She will not hit him. Despite how tempting the broad expanse of his cheek is, she will  _ not _ hit him. 

He seems to take enormous pleasure from the expression her face must be wearing. “So you see,” he concludes, “I do believe I’m doing you a favor.”

It’s difficult to draft an appropriate response given the immediate immensity and intensity of her emotions. What she desperately wants, suddenly and absolutely, is to be alone to weigh her options, even though she has her suspicions that they are incredibly restricted. Her own marriage prospects are but a distant concern, even without the sword hanging above her head; the impacts to Captain Blake’s standing, however, would be devastating. He would be very unlikely to recover. “I will need time, my lord,” she therefore says, lips numb. “To consider your proposal, and to… put my affairs in order.”

Wallace leans back. “I can offer my lady a week,” he says, “after which I will announce our engagement at Lady Diana’s ball.”

One of the largest events of the season, and sure to include everyone in the peerage. Her humiliation will be swift and irrevocable. She nods, stiff, and does not move again until he’s left the room.

Once she hears his footsteps exit her front door, she slides deep into her chair and allows herself a single streak of truly deplorable language.

*

Clarke indulges in the rare luxury of canceling her social appointments for the rest of the week - _indisposed, terrible head cold, &c. _- and spends the remainder of the day searching for a way out. Raven, as a particular friend, takes the liberty of waiting on her the next day to assess her health, at which point she finds she cannot keep the weight of this terrible secret from her. Clarke’s grasp of Spanish is relatively good, but she suspects she’d be hard-pressed to find her friend’s immediate reaction in any lady’s language primer.

“Is there truly nothing you can do?” Raven asks eventually, gripping Clarke’s hand in her own.

Clarke has never drowned, but she can imagine that what she is experiencing now feels remarkably close. “I cannot allow Cage Wallace to so thoroughly ruin Captain Blake’s prospects in the Ton,” she says, and her voice is distant to her own ears. “As a natural-born son turned heir, his standing is precarious enough, and you know better than I how difficult it already is to be but half-English in this circle.”

Raven shakes her head violently. “Still, there must be some way out. He cannot be allowed to take your land, your income, your future! I cannot see you become his wife.”

“You find me at a loss,” Clarke admits. “As far as traps go, he has built an excellent one.”

“Is there no way to divorce your income from your land? It would be terrible, I admit, to see your country given away, but if that truly is all he’s after…”

She shakes her head. “The two are part and parcel of each other. Besides which, I cannot imagine he would be satisfied if I were able to keep my money. No, he’s after all of it.”

There are several more attempts to free her, but the two women part ways frustrated. Clarke begins to feel every hour slipping away as a personal affront, as if every clock she owns is pushing her bodily into a future as Lady Wallace. Her preparations for Marquess Diana Sydney’s ball take on a macabre sensibility, and she finds she cannot even look at ribbons without feeling a hollow sense of dread.

Only the prospect of Captain Blake’s near-certain banishment from society keeps her from running away, grounds her when fantasies of fleeing to her mother’s household start to look appealing. There would be no avenue available to him but to return to the Continent, likely forever, and await death by France or by exile. Even if he could retire to his own property, his prospects at happiness would be permanently ruined, for no woman would approve of her daughter marrying such a man. His hopes for Miss Gina Martin in particular would be dashed, she realizes one day as she sits at her writing desk, and this somehow makes her recollection of his expression upon looking at Miss Martin even more painful.

She buries her face in her hands, sheltering from the bright morning sunshine streaming through the north windows. She has, predictably, not slept well since Wallace appeared to present his ultimatum, and her eyes are beginning to feel gritty with exhaustion. A cup of cold tea sits forgotten at her elbow. The latest of Cook’s attempts to coax her appetite out of hiding is sitting untouched behind it. The smell of flowers, sent from acquaintances wishing her good health soon, is starting to chafe into a dull headache.

The sound of her door opening doesn’t induce any change in her posture. “I trust Cook can be left to her own judgments regarding the dinner menu,” she says, without opening her eyes, and there’s an uncharacteristic silence before her butler clears his throat.

“I do apologize, ma’am, but he would not be persuaded to postpone his visit,” Jackson says, and Clarke’s gaze snaps up to see Captain Blake.

He’s not wearing his uniform, but she has never likened him more to Ares. “I see,” she says, and stands up. “We’ll be quite alright, thank you.”

Jackson, bless him, hesitates for another moment before leaving. The click of the door shutting reverberates in silence for a moment. 

“Shall I ring for coffee?” she asks, drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She’s suddenly painfully aware of the fact that she’s dressed in one of her oldest, most unfashionable frocks. Her hair is almost certainly an appalling sight. 

“You’re not marrying Wallace,” he says, and she closes her eyes for another half-second.

“Raven,” she mutters.

“There is no version of events,” he continues, expression blazing as he strides toward her, “where you accept Wallace’s proposal.” His voice is iron-clad, as if he will brook no argument, not even from logic itself. “I have created a truly regrettable situation, but the consequences should be mine alone. I cannot ask you to shoulder this burden.”

“I do believe this arrangement was created to work with or without your blessing,” she replies, terse. “Lord Wallace has found what he believes to be an elegant solution to his desire for my inheritance, and I must admit that his terms seem fairly inescapable. I only regret that your reputation has been dragged into - “

“ _ My _ reputation?” He actually looks staggered. “Clarke, I beg you, don’t tell me you’re accepting on the basis of preserving my reputation.”

The thrill of hearing her name escape his mouth is both unavoidable and shocking. She reassesses just how heightened his emotions must be to allow for such an oversight in propriety, even as she longs to hear it again. “What else can I do?” she snaps, taking refuge in unleashing desperation as ire. “He’s given me a choice, either marry him or watch you suffer, and I - “ Horrifyingly, her throat closes. “Captain, I - “

“Marry me,” he says, and she feels all the air leave the room.

“What?” she chokes out, after what must be at least a millennium, and something cracks apart in his expression. He can’t look at her, suddenly, and turns abruptly to stare out the windows.

“I cannot accept the idea of you sacrificing your entire life to preserve my own,” he says to her drapes, knuckles white at his sides. “If Wallace intends to make good on his promise, there’s only one other way to ensure his blackmail is meaningless.”

She finds she can’t do anything other than stand there, frozen in place, shock wiping all her thoughts clean. He must misinterpret her silence, for he adds, stiff, “I do not presume - that is, I would not expect that you… love me, in the way a wife loves her husband. But I would be good to you. As good as I know how. And… I would hope that we could be friends.”

She feels, inexplicably, like crying. This must be some sort of mythical test, pulled from one of the classics: everything she’s ever wanted, given in precisely the wrong fashion. Perversely, she’s sure he would know what work to reference. “I cannot in good conscience ask you to do that which you clearly do not desire,” she forces herself to say. It feels like scraping her heart out of her chest, raw and still beating. “This solution, for you, would be no different than Lord Wallace’s.”

His gaze finally swings around to meet her own. There is something unintelligible happening on his face even as she watches him, something that looks far too much like hope to make any sort of sense in this moment. “Clarke,” he says again, and this time it feels deliberate. His voice is rough over her name, the syllable almost unbearably intimate as it leaves his tongue. “Marry me.”

She is abruptly aware of her heartbeat, roaring loud in her ears. Her fingers are gripping her thighs, hard enough to hurt. “Do you want me to?” she asks, and watches as he comes around the chaise to stand in front of her, impossibly close.

“I’m asking you of my own accord,” he says, and she can see sunlight reflect off the silvery scar on his lip, melt liquid gold in his eyes. 

There is something expanding in her chest, hot and sweet. Her hands have come to grip his without her permission. “Yes,” she replies, and it feels like a dam breaking. “Yes, Bellamy, I’ll marry you.”

His mouth is pressing against her own almost before the sentence is through, and she revels in the still-familiar feel of it, three years late. He tastes like coffee and smells like soap, and the feel of his curls between her fingers is heady. He makes a noise somewhere deep in his throat and skims a hand down her back, curving closer into her. She feels the backs of her thighs hit the desk behind her, a faint tinkle of glass nearly pulling her attention away, but then his grip is tight enough to press her into the warm expanse of his chest, and she finds she cannot concentrate on anything other than the slide of his tongue against hers.

Eventually, they part, though she cannot bring herself to leave the circle of his embrace. She rests her forehead against his instead, and rediscovers lost constellations among the freckles on his cheeks. “Bellamy,” she says, and it’s suddenly vitally important that she say this, the words that have pierced her heart every day for three years and crowded into her throat each time she saw his face. “I love you. I don’t think - no, I know I never stopped.”

“Neither did I,” he says, and the curve of his smile is achingly familiar. “Though I must admit I did try my hardest to forget.”

“I must apologize,” she says, “for behaving so terribly three summers ago. I let grief get the best of me, and there’s no excuse for it.”

He shakes his head. “There was also some misinterpretation on my part,” he admits, rueful. “I believed you had come to your senses and realized there was no good reason to marry someone of my status.”

_ I cannot be with someone like you _ , she’d said then, in the throes of grief, and she’d meant someone who was willing to be so good to her that she could ruin them. But of course, after suffering his first season in the capricious environment of the Ton, he’d had ample reason to interpret her statement differently. She feels bitter regret at losing three years engulf her.

“I never thought you were anything other than too good for me,” she says, and he kisses her temple. 

“We found ourselves here eventually,” he replies, easy, and that provokes another smile out of her. “It was rather illuminating to hear that you - what was it? Don’t care a whit about your reputation?”

“The statement is still true,” she says. “Although I do admit that being Lady Wallace would have severely depressed my standing amongst my friends. That would have been quite a loss.”

“Oh yes, the only real sacrifice to becoming Lady Wallace,” he replies, dry. She doesn’t miss how his grip on her tightens infinitesimally.

“I think we’ll find that my becoming Lady Blake will be much more palatable to them,” she replies, and he hides his own smile in her neck. 

“Oh!” she exclaims a little while later, a sudden thought striking her. “But what about Miss Martin?”

His features betray shock, and, to her surprise, a hint of guilt. “Miss Gina Martin?”

“I - well, I rather thought you were reaching an agreement with her.”

“Maybe I’d thought it a potential path to take,” he says, and the tips of his ears turn red. “But she informed me in no uncertain terms that she was unwilling to play understudy for another woman.”

“I see,” Clarke says, and finds her opinion of the lady drastically improved. “Well, I do like a woman who knows her own worth.”

*

Their marriage is sealed via license two days later. Sergeant Miller and Raven play witness, while Wells alone comprises their guest list. The next night, Clarke makes her solo appearance at Lady Diana’s ball.

It’s a crush of people, of course, but she manages to wade her way through the crowd to find a familiar face. Maya looks genuinely happy to see her when she approaches. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she says, and it’s a testament to how radically better Clarke feels that she struggles for a moment to remember her excuses of ill health, sent out scarcely seven days ago. Clarke gives her a radiant smile.

“I do feel rather wonderful,” she says, just as Cage Wallace appears.

“I hope you’re prepared to be re-introduced, my lady,” he says, after a sardonic bow.

“I am prepared, yes,” she says, and Maya’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Has there been a change in your title?” she asks, and Clarke is opening her mouth to respond when she feels an arm slide around her waist.

“There you are,” says her husband, and she doesn’t laugh at Wallace’s expression, but it’s a close thing. “I’ve been told my men won’t believe in there being a Lady Blake until I’ve produced her.”

“And they won’t believe Sergeant Miller’s word, either?” she asks.

“He’s refusing to corroborate my account,” says Bellamy, before he affects to take notice of their audience. “Miss Vie, a pleasure. Lord Wallace. I do hope you don’t mind if I take my wife away from your company. Just to speak with my men, of course.”

“Your wife,” repeats Wallace, expression mutinous. 

Maya, perceptive as always, reaches out to squeeze Clarke’s hand. “I wish you every happiness,” she says, and Clarke squeezes back with a smile.

Bellamy keeps a light hand on her spine as they walk away, and she manages to keep from laughing until they reach the other end of the room.

“Very undignified behavior from a Countess,” he murmurs in her ear.

People are already staring. But the wedding announcement is to be put in tomorrow’s newspapers, and she has no intention of hiding their marriage from anyone who may ask tonight. So she leans up to reply, “I suppose you’ll have to resign yourself to having an improper wife,” letting one hand brace against his chest for balance.

The flash of his smile is bright and unreserved. “I could never be less than overjoyed,” he tells her, and she lets herself agree, heart full enough to burst.


End file.
